


Cold and Broken

by misc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring!John, Fluff, Hurt!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misc/pseuds/misc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock gets himself injured while working a case, and John visits him in the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold and Broken

Sherlock is running, sprinting as the frozen air burns his lungs. A short distance behind him he can hear John panting, and behind him the rest of the police force. Ahead of him is his target, a criminal they’d been tracking for weeks now. And he was getting away.

There is little other option, as the murderer speeds up across a bridge, and Sherlock pulls out a small gun and fires once. The criminal falls, blood exploding from the small hole through his left leg. Sherlock slows to a stop, shoes just touching the edge of a rapidly spreading pool of gore on the frosty pavement.

“You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later-“ He stops in the middle of the sentence. The man below him is grinning. In the split second it takes Sherlock to realize something is very wrong, the man’s uninjured leg shoots out, and in one deft movement pushes the detective’s feet out from under him. He topples over the edge of the frozen cement bridge.

Above him, a gunshot rings out across the night, and someone is screaming. It occurs to him that he should scream back, but before he can summon the oxygen, his body collides with the dark dirty water and the world around him falls black and silent.

***

He wakes up choking on the riverbank. His mouth tastes like acid, his head is pounding like a hangover and he is soaked to the bone. Blurry words and faces swim around him and he blinks and coughs again, gagging on the water in his lungs.

“Sherlock?” A familiar voice brakes the hazy noise. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

He blinks again, struggling to respond. “John?”

“Oh thank god.” A different voice murmurs in the background

“Yeah” John responds. “It’s me. Do you know what happened?”

“I fell in the river?” His voice slurs from the cold

“Yes.”

Sirens are wailing in the distance, and every part of him aches with a deep, frozen pain. “Fuck.” He mutters, and with that, his head rolls back and he slips again into unconsciousness.

*** 

When he wakes again, it is to the sound of monitors beeping and soft voices following footsteps down a hallway. He is in a hospital. Last he remembers, he was plummeting off a frigid ledge towards even colder water. Sherlock's eyes are too heavy to open, and he lays still, reveling in the astounding ache pounding through his body. Eventually, he forces himself awake.

“What happened?” He tries to ask, but all that comes out is a painful rasping cough

“Hey,” A soothing voice comes from the bedside. He turns and finds himself looking into the tired, worried eyes of John Watson. ‘You’re awake.”

“What happened?” He repeats in a hoarse whisper, wincing at his own voice

“You fell into the river.”

Even in his weakened state Sherlock manages to roll his eyes. “I’m aware of that. What exactly happened?”

“Well, uh, the criminal we were chasing sort of tripped you, and you went falling over the edge. Lestrade shot and killed him after that, and someone was screaming to call an ambulance. I was running down to the bank. I could just see you, floating on your back. Thank God you were wearing a white shirt, or I might not have seen you at all. Anyways, I jumped in and pulled you out and gave you CPR. You woke up for a few seconds and passed out again, and the ambulance came and took you here.” He shrugs, as if the story he had just recounted had been in any way uninteresting

Sherlock eyes widen and he tries to sit up and respond, but his words are cut off by a violent fit of coughing. When he finally comes up for air, John is biting his lip with a look of terrible concern.

“You better take it easy.” He mutters gently, pushing Sherlock back into the starchy hospital pillows. His black hair contrasts shockingly from his pale cheeks.. “The doctors think you hit your head on the bottom; you have a minor concussion, as well as a mild case of hypothermia.” Sherlock raises his fingers to push his hair off the alarming painful lump of his forehead with a grimace. “And to top that off, you caught something nasty from the water, hence the cough. It’s lucky you’re alive.”

“Well, I guess that’s thanks to you” Sherlock says

John shrugs again, blushing just the slightest bit. “Just doing my job”

“Thank you.”

Unable to think of anything to say, John shrugs a third time.

Sherlock shifts carefully, so he is sitting up properly. Even slight movements sends fresh ripples of stiff pain down his spine, and on top of everything, he realizes he is very, very cold. He shivers and pulls slightly at the far too thin hospital blanket. John cringes sympathetically.

“You must still be absolutely freezing.”

“No more so than you must be.” Sherlock points out. “You were in the river too.”

“Yeah, for a much shorter amount of time. I’m not the one who almost drowned.”

“Still, if you haven’t had a chance to change out of your clothes in… how long has it been?”

John glances down at his watch. “It’s almost seven in the morning now, so about ten hours?”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and he exclaims hoarsely “And you’ve been here the whole time?”

John nods, “I didn’t want you to be alone when you woke up.”

“I appreciate that, but you should really go back to the flat. You’ll be useless in a few hours otherwise.”

John sighs and leans back in the chair, running his hand across his hair and allowing himself, for the first time all night, to acknowledge how exhausted he is. “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

John raises an eyebrow at the comment but lets it slide. If anything, it’s a good sign that the detective is going to be fine. “Are you going to be alright if I go? I hate to leave you…” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, still managing to sound haughty despite the scratch in his voice. “Yes, John. I can assure you that I am able to survive on my own.”

Its John’s turn to roll his eyes at this, but he drags himself out of the chair. “I’ll come back later. Do you need anything?”

“No, not really.”

“Alright, then. Um, call me if anything happens, or if you need something.”

Sherlock nods, rather than attempt to talk again, and they two men stare at each other for a few seconds before John turns and heads out the door.

Sighing, Sherlock tries to sit up, but ends of coughing and lets his head flop back, staring at the small dots decorating the celling. The monitors beep and voices fade into each other in the hallway.

 _I’m bored._ He thinks, absently finding himself wishing John had stayed. His fingers slip towards the inside of his medical bracelet and twist, spinning the paper around his wrist so the black words blur and the edges press against his skin.

Just as he is starting to drift to sleep again, the business like clacking of heels on a tile floor tells him a nurse is coming by. Sure enough, in a few seconds, the owner of the heels appears to give him medicine and subject him to tests he deems pointless. Eventually, she leaves again and he is free to fall asleep. Sherlock dreams about murder, screaming and being trapped under frozen water.

Sherlock never realized how disorienting and terrifying naps in hospital rooms are until he jolts awake with a hoarse yell about six hours later. Standing in the doorway is John, hands raised in surprise and eyes narrowed in concern.

“Sorry.” Sherlock whispers. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry, You startled me. What time is it?”

“About quarter to two in the afternoon. I came to bring you these.” He crosses the small room to the bedside. In his outstretched hand there are two envelopes.

Sherlock takes them and turns them over in his hands.

“One is from Mrs. Hudson, and the other is from Lesrade and the rest of the force. They’re get-well cards.”

Sherlock runs his fingers across the folds before setting them on the bedside table with a shrug of nonchalance, despite the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Are you feeling any better?” John continues

“A little. None of this,” he gestures around the room “is necessary”

John resists the urge to sigh “Well, the nurses say they want you here overnight, but you can probably go home within a few days, so just try to relax.”

“But I have work I could be doing. This is a waste of time.”

“Listen, Sherlock.” John sits down in the hard chair before continuing. “In the whole time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you actually take a chance to take time off, even if you needed it, so just please rest now so you can get better faster and get back to work sooner, alright? I want you to be okay.”

Sherlock looks down at his hands, still tugging childishly at his hospital bracelet. “Alright.” He mutters to his lap. Without looking up, he can tell John is smiling through his concern.

“And, yes, I know hospitals are boring, but look.” John pulls something out from behind is back. “I brought you a book to read. Its my favorite. Try to do something recreational for once.”

He sets the novel down on the table and walks out the door without another word.

After a few moments, Sherlock turns to the letters. The first one is simple, just a white card with the signatures of the members of the police framing the words ‘Get Well Soon’. He can’t help but to wonder why they sent it, he hardly gets along with any of them, but he supposes it’s a nice enough gesture. The other card is much more interesting. Mrs. Hudson’s friendly familiar handwriting neatly crosses the page, telling him how he should really be more careful, and to come home soon because John won’t stop sulking about. He smiles, and props it up nicely against the wall. It’s only then when he remembers the book.

The Hobbit By J.R.R. Tolkien

Usually he would never bother with such fantasy, but he really has nothing better to do, so he sighs and opens the worn cover. A note falls out and drifts down to the bed. His eyes widen, and he picks it up and begins to read.

 _Sherlock, I wasn’t sure if you would be sleeping when I stopped by, so I wrote this out. I hope you are feeling better, and I thought this book might help pass the time. It’s my favorite, and I know you usually avoid every thing even remotely fun, but I thought you might make an exception. In any case, make sure to actually rest for once in your life. I want you to get better. It’s been one day and its already very boring around 221B without you. And in the future, try not to go falling off anything._

_-John_

Sherlock grins at the blue inked words, silently talking pleasure in how John’s usual annoyed-but-friendly tone can be carried through such a short note. He tucks it in between two middle pages and begins to read. ‘In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit…’


End file.
